


With This Ring (I Give You My Promise)

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: (sort of), F/M, Fae & Fairies, Femdom, Inappropriate Uses of Iron, Mind Games, Non-Penetrative Sex, Painplay, Predicament Bondage, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 21:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10705341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He arches and sobs the moment her fingers touch his skin, desperately trying to get away from the pain.This isn't revenge. It's a means to an end.





	With This Ring (I Give You My Promise)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AFTanith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFTanith/gifts).



He's been so sweet for her lately, ever since she bought his new jewelry. It makes for a lovely change; before, he'd hiss and snarl curses at her, or try to cast vicious little spells from his pitiful reserves of magic. Nothing particularly dangerous, just… annoying.

When she walks into his room now, the little worn-down apartment she keeps rented for this purpose alone, she can see the calculations going on behind his achingly beautiful eyes. He glances at her, gaze filled with hatred and fear, opens his mouth as if so say something, and then he _remembers_. He bites his lip, eyes falling to the ground as he slumps in defeat.

Everything about him is frighteningly perfect: his face is a painting, his body a marble statue. Even his pale hair—unwashed and stained in places with old blood—falls with a gentle wave that highlights the perfect curve of his cheekbones. Once, he charmed young men and women away from their homes, into other lands where they could not escape. Once, he took something of hers.

He will not be leaving until she gets it back. (479 days and counting. She can be patient.)

She steps towards him slowly, letting the fear and the anticipation build in his eyes. “Are you glad to see me?”

He glares at her in quiet rage.

“That's not an answer.” She reaches out and, with one delicate touch, runs the backs of her fingers from his collarbone to his hip. 

He arches and sobs the moment her fingers touch his skin, desperately trying to get away from the pain. She doesn't move, doesn't respond, just lets her hand—and the cast-iron ring that sits on one finger—trace a line of blossoming red down his perfect pale skin.

His thrashing doesn't help him any. All it does is force him into contact with the iron nails she's hammered into place near his elbows, his shoulders, and his legs, raising another dozen pinprick welts.

Like a constellation of tiny red stars, she thinks. It's a strangely beautiful sight.

Finally, he wears himself out and sinks, panting, back into the brace she's molded for him. Most people would have learned long ago not to struggle, but then he's not really _people_ at all; he speaks at length, when she allows him words, of his kind's superiority over humanity. _Ants_ , he calls them all, _insignificant_ , and perhaps that's true but it's an ant whose mercy he's at now. 

Common sense doesn't seem to come easily to the Fair Folk, in her experience. They're too above it all to really think on things

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you done, then? Or are you going to hurt yourself some more?”

He doesn't move, doesn't try to speak. His only sign of acquiescence is that his eyes slowly flutter closed.

His _accommodations_ (his cage, she calls it sometimes, or else his display case; he really is like some strange butterfly pinned to a corkboard) is a proper work of art, if she does say so herself. It started out rough, and there's still hints of those first few days of desperate work under it all, but she's made a great many improvements in the year and a half she's had him. The backing is a sheet of cold, metal, bright and gleaming; it's not anything near _close_ to pure iron, but there's just enough traces in it to leave him uncomfortable. Onto it she's welded loops of metal—one for each wrist and ankle, one for his neck, one for his stomach—and a series of iron nails where the manacles don't quite cover. Each is purer iron than the back, so that he always knows when he's squirming too much.

Not that it helps him much, of course. He squirms and he squirms and he squirms, and as soon as his body has finished healing he starts at it again. The only thing he _won't_ do is take the simple way out. 

The latest addition is a small band that she carefully bent and welded so that it rests _just_ barely in the empty space beneath his lower lip. Talking or moving or breathing too hard is liable to set it off—he has a near-permanent red mark across his chin now. It's made him much more bearable.

She drops her backpack to the ground with a sigh and steps closer. The mouth-strap she carefully unlatches and pulls away, then the collar round his neck and the two nails nearest his shoulders soon follow. “I've brought you something to eat. Be nice and you can have it.”

His eyes open, and he can't disguise the naked want on his face now. It's been a week or so since she brought anything with her and—though he doesn't truly _need_ to eat—he's surely grown hungry. Without his magic bolstering him, his body is subject to the same wants as any mortal.

“Well?” she asks. She holds her palm out, barely an inch from his face. 

It takes him a moment, but eventually want wins out over revulsion. He leans in and kisses the skin of her palm. Gentle, reverent—right now, he truly looks like the innocent soul he always pretended to be.

“Good boy,” she says, condescendingly, and watches his cheeks flush. She goes over to her pack and pulls out the food.

The things she gives him are tainted, mortal-made foods: fast-food burgers, candy bars, things that come in bags and cans and plastic wrappers. They bind him to this plane as surely as the iron she has leashed him with. 

The first few months he refused to eat them at all. He demanded fresh berries, root vegetables, wild meats untainted by mortal hands. Now, he takes the bite-sized chunks of food right out of her palm and looks grateful as he does.

She wonders if he even realizes how debased he's become, how tame. What would the rest of his kind think if the could see him now?

Finally, when the last bit of food has disappeared into his mouth, she takes a step back. She picks up the discarded pieces of metal and begins to latch them back into place.

It's as if he's only just realized what's coming next, as if they haven't done this a dozen times before; he begins to struggle against the bonds, thrashing back and forth like a bird with a fractured wing. “No,” he says, “please, no.” He looks desperate and broken and so _achingly_ sad that it would win anyone's heart.

Ten years ago he came into their lives, every bit as soft and doe-eyed and tragic as he looks now. He came not to her, but to her twin sister; he told her sister stories that she'd repeat to her in the dark of the night, bought her sister flowers that smelled so fresh they seemed to still be alive, promised her the sun and the moon and his love.

Her sister was barely seventeen then, naive and trusting as anyone could be, and when he finally had her heart he—took it. Crushed it. Stole her away to some place that no mortal could follow.

When she'd confronted him, demanding her family back, he'd laughed at her and then tore her open from collar to hip with a single spell. It should have killed her. It didn't. And it had been worth every single day it took to track him down once more.

She still wears the scar. He laughs very rarely now.

“You can stop this,” she says calmly. “It's so easy. You can always, always stop this.”

He shuts his eyes tight and bites his lip, sucking in air through his nose.

“Don't you want to stop hurting? Don't you want to see the sky again, see your _home_ again? Just tell me what I want to know and this can all be over.”

It's his name she needs—his name and, with it, his soul. The legends say that a fae who gives their name away to a mortal will be bound to them forever, enslaved as surely as if a ring of iron had been wrought 'round their throat.

A fae who gave his name away to a mortal could be forced to take her to the other plane, could be forced to help her bring her sister back. 

“No,” he snaps finally, then hisses as the iron bites into him.

“Fine, then,” she says. “Just let me know if you want this to stop.”

She presses close to him, drapes her hands across his naked body and runs her fingers up and down his sides. She pinches at his soft nipples, runs her hand along his sack, and plays with the tips of his sensitive ears. His prick hangs heavy between his legs, and it begins to swell at the touch—it, at least, knows what it wanted. 

When his cheeks are flushed and his breathing has grown harsh, she leans in to press her mouth against his—and, in the same breath, tilts her hand so that her iron ring presses directly against the softest part of his thigh.

He makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, shaking in his attempt to get away. With a soft push she presses him back into his bonds, whispering soft reassurances as he writhes in the agony of the iron.

His prick, when she reaches down to feel it, is still hard. He's become accustomed to her touch in the strangest of ways these past few months.

“Is that the problem?” she asks him tauntingly, pressing one fingernail against his slit. “Do you like this too much? Maybe you don't even want to escape anymore, maybe you're just hoping I'll keep you here forever.”

“Silence,” he snarls, tears in his eyes. He's rewarded with the brush of her iron ring against his balls.

“Oh, hush,” she says. She wraps her unadorned hand around his length, stroking it with all the gentleness she can muster, while her other hand presses against his neck, his face, his ribs, leaving the ring's imprint every place it touches. “Don't pretend. If you're so desperate, I have friends I could bring—lots of people would _love_ to see a creature like you writhe and beg like this. Maybe I should find a man for you, someone who could slide an iron ring 'round his prick and open you up? Or maybe I'll ask over some ladies to rub metal filings all down your skin so you could feel it for _days_ after. I bet then you'd finally be satisfied.”

It's all nonsense that she's muttering—she certainly doesn't have any friends, for one—but she's surprised at the response it gets. His cheeks are redder than he's ever seen them, and his head arches against the metal backing. He shudders in her arms, squirms and moans and then—

He comes into her hand without so much as a moment's warning.

For a moment, both of them are silent. Normally it takes an hour of tortment before she finally can force him to come.

“...Well,” she says finally. “ _Well_. I guess I underestimated just how desperate you were.” She snorts and disgustedly rubs his release onto his bare skin. “I suppose that's it for today, then. Think about what I said.”

She picks up her backpack and heads for the door. She's a little angry with herself; she meant to hold him out far longer than this, get him truly pained. He never responds to sheer pain alone, and once she's wasted the hold she has on his wants—food and pleasure alike—all she can do is try again later.

Halfway out of the room, she hears something behind her.

“Wait,” he croaks, “ _wait_.”

She turns, surprised, wondering what he could possibly want—and a name falls from his lips.

It's nothing close to human, nothing she could write down or spell or even understand, but the moment she hears it she _knows_. 

She repeats the name back to him, delighting in the way it rolls of her tongue, ans sees his head bow with the weight of his defeat. The iron is digging into him once more, but he hardly even seems to feel it now.

“Oh,” she says. She steps back into the room. Numb shock is giving way to excitement. “That's—oh.”

 _Finally_ , she thinks, _finally, finally_. Her heart feels like it might burst.

She pulls the metal free piece by piece, freeing him from the upright table at long last. When the last piece pulls away he falls to his knees and stays there.

Naked, on all fours, his head hanging down; he looks less like a god now and more like some beast. She says his name again, watches the way the way he flinches to hear it out of her mouth, and rests a hand in his soft hair.

“Good boy,” she says. “You've done so well. Now, let's get started on the real work, shall we?”


End file.
